Winning Moves
by Falling April
Summary: [Chess, postshow, WalterFlorence] Walter and Florence are trying to put things back together after Bangkok, and are surprised to find that they need each other to do it. [Oneshot]


Bangkok had been the true end of an era.

It had been six months since the World Chess Championship. Freddie was the champion again, and Walter was still his manager. Things were different, of course - Florence was gone,not even on the radar of the chess world anymore. Freddie was depressed, wouldn't agree to any matches, probably would lose his title again in a couple of years and not bother to get it back. And Walter...

Walter lived with guilt every day. Guilt that he'd screwed Florence over, that he'd probably helped drive her away from Freddie. But of course, he couldn't just apologize.

"You." Florence looked none-too-happy to have run into him. In all honesty, Walter wasn't thrilled either, but he smiled charmingly anyway.

"Florence Vassey. I haven't seen you since Bangkok."

"Still stating the blatantly obvious, are we?" she replied, dryly.

"Always. You know me," he said, trying to keep his tone light. Florence's face darkened.

"Not anymore," she said shortly. "The Walter I knew wouldn't have manipulated and lied to people he claimed as friends." _Traitor,_ her eyes said.

"That's a bit harsh," Walter began. She wasn't listening.

"How's Freddie?"

Of course. It always _was_ about Freddie, in the end. She didn't care about anyone like she cared about him. Even when she hated him, left him, she still had called Walter to check on him, to make sure he wasn't destroying himself. Until Bangkok. "He's fine." An obvious lie, but _she_ was the one who left. Why should he feel obligated to tell her?

"He hasn't been playing," she pointed out. Walter shrugged.

"Neither have you."

She didn't respond, just turned after a moment and walked away. He realized that evening that he hadn't asked what she was doing in America anyway.

Two days later, he got word that she'd left the country.

* * *

England wasn't the same.

Florence had always loved her adopted home - she'd grown up in London, met Freddie in York, lived with Anatoly in Brighton and Derby and Wales. But it had changed, while she was in Bangkok, and America. It had become less comforting, less safe. It wasn't the place she'd once loved, and she couldn't understand how six months could change a place that much.

"Surprise, surprise..." Her trip to the market was ruined by that smooth voice, the one she'd last hear before she'd left America three months ago and that she'd hoped never to hear again.

"Walter," she said stiffly. She saw something flicker behind his eyes - annoyance, disappointment, amusement... she wasn't quite sure.

"Fancy seeing _you_ here," he said, as if it were actually a surprise. Florence knew better.

"What do you want, Walter?" she asked with a sigh.

"A favor," he said, and he bluntness took her by surprise. Walter generally took a while to get around to the point - being this straightforward wasn't like him.

"A _favor_?" she asked, recovering quickly. "What on earth makes you think I'd do _you_ a favor?" Toasters would sprout wings and fly and give birth to buttered toast before she'd help him again. Except that he really did look a bit nervous. Tired. Like...

Well, like she always had when Freddie was causing her trouble.

"It's Freddie," he started.

Florence rolled her eyes. "I could've guessed _that_."

"I want you to play him," Walter continued quickly, and that brought Florence up short.

"_What_?"

"You know his style, how he plays. You know the way his mind works better than anyone else. And..." Walter hesitated, fiddling with the hem of his jacket - a nervous habit Florence could've sworn she'd broken him of once.

"And?" she asked, trying to sound uninterested and impatient.

"You can give him a run for his money if he's not in the game," he said finally. "Maybe if you beat him, the talk'll be enough to get him mad."

"And if he gets mad, he'll start trying again to prove everyone wrong." It wasn't too hard to finish the train of thought Walter had put forth.

"Pretty much," he said with a tight smile. "Will you?"

"You don't think seeing me won't do more harm than good?" she asked, dubious. Walter spread his hands helplessly.

"I don't know," he admitted, "but it's the only thing I haven't tried. It's... it's bad."

_Of __**course**__ it's bad,_ she thought. _You're coming to __**me**__ to fix it._ But she said nothing for a moment. It was a lot to ask of her - didn't he realize that? After everything he'd seen Freddie put her through...

"Please, Florence?" he asked softly, taking her hand. Florence fought the urge to pull away. "I don't know what else to try."

"Fine." She sighed. "Set it up and get him there. I'll play."

* * *

He'd forgotten what it was like, watching Florence and Freddie play chess. The way they moved, the way Freddie didn't raise a hand until he'd planned his move, the way Florence's fingers fluttered through the air over the pieces until she decided which she would touch. Freddie, confident, and Florence just as confident but smoother - it was like watching a beast battle a siren. It was a ballet.

Of course, Freddie was off his game now, and had been for the past three games. Best of five, and Florence had only lost the first. From nerves, Walter guessed. But even depression and not caring couldn't completely take away from his half of the dance. It was almost hard to remember to breathe - his eyes were drawn to the board, to the white queen as Florence picked her up so delicately and moved her. Caressed her. He imagined, briefly, what it must be like for Freddie, watching her hands (so graceful, so small, so delicate, like the rest of her) on the pieces, and remembering what it felt to have those hands in his, on his chest, lower...

Florence set the queen down, putting Freddie into check and looking up at him for the first time this game. A murmur ran through the small crowd. Walter held his breath, waiting for what he knew was coming... Freddie stared at the board for a long moment, calculating, but even Walter could see it was obvious there was no way for him to win. Freddie paused and, in his characteristic over-dramatic way, toppled his king, scattering several surrounding pieces across the table.

"Frederick Trumper has resigned," the arbiter of the match, who Walter called in on a favor, seemed almost surprised. The hum that was quickly getting louder attested that everyone _else_ in the room was, too. Except for Walter. Except for Florence. Except for Freddie. Walter couldn't take his eyes off of them - it was like they were communicating silently in the intense look they were sharing over the board. For all he knew, they _were_ - it'd been almost two years, maybe, but they'd been together for seven. Freddie stood, sudden and rushed, and stalked out. Florence hardly hesitated a moment before following him out, into the lobby of the hotel they were playing in. Walter followed.

They were halfway across the lobby when he reached the door of the conference room they were set up in. Florence was speaking, earnestly. Freddie had his back to the door. Walter felt a flash of something tight across his chest when Florence reached out to touch Freddie's shoulder. They spoke a moment longer, he saw Florence's shoulders slump a bit with a sigh, and she kissed Freddie's cheek lightly. Then she was gone, slipping into the elevator to go upstairs. Walter swallowed hard, fighting down whatever was stabbing him in the chest, and walked over to Freddie.

"You okay?" Walter asked quietly. Freddie didn't look away from the elevator doors.

"I lost," he said.

"I thought that was obvious," Walter said, trying to keep his tone light. Freddie shook his head.

"No, I mean... I thought maybe, if we played... but she's not coming back, Walter." He sounded so... lost. Scared. Like he hadn't actually accepted that he'd lost Florence for good. Walter sighed.

"Yeah. I know, man. You wanna go get trashed?"

"God, please."

* * *

She hadn't waited to talk to Walter after the match. What was the point, really? She did what she went there to do, she said goodbye to Freddie (for good, this time), and she left. She didn't expect to feel like she'd left something unfinished. She felt like she'd gone on vacation and left the stove on, or left a load of laundry in the wash at the laundromat.

She _missed_ him. It didn't make sense, really - he had lied to her, manipulated her, betrayed years of friendship that she'd thought meant more than they appeared to mean to him... but she _missed_ him. She felt guilty for not saying goodbye. Perhaps she should just call him, thank him for the small monetary prize he'd set up for the match out-of-pocket, and finish her business with him. Yes, that was what she should do, and then she'd have him out of her system and not worry about him ever again.

She called him collect from the pay phone outside her apartment - she didn't have a phone to herself right now, she could barely pay her rent and utilities. She felt like she was on hold for hours until the operator got back to her. "I'm sorry, ma'am, there's no answer."

"Thank you," she murmured, and hung up slowly. It shouldn't be so disappointing that he wasn't there. It shouldn't make her want to curl up around her pillow. She sighed, rested her forehead against the glass of the phone booth for a moment, feeling it cool against her skin. But she didn't want to stay there. She sighed, stepped out, and let out a muffled squeak of surprise when she saw the man standing outside her building, hands in his pockets.

"Hey, Florence," Walter said.

"You should let people know when you're going to be out of town," she said briskly. "That way they know when not to call you."

"I'll keep that in mind," he replied.

Florence smiled.


End file.
